He knows he's leading a life of luxury, but hey - someone has to.
Surrounded by mountains and lakes, and far away from civilisation, November at Hogwarts had been more than uncomfortable, but now the bitter cold has found its way into the castle - especially in the dungeon. On some days, the courtyards are deserted because the students prefer to sit in front of the fireplace with a hot drink than freezing outside. So one can have a relaxed chat about the current Quidditch events or Dumbledore's forbidden corridor, which, as word has got around, is just a kind of competition for the Prefects to gain house points.
But today, on a clear morning and one day before the holidays, the students are drawn outside once more. For the first time, the snow has settled and everyone wants to destroy the untouched snow cover with their footprints and snow angels.
Crabbe and Goyle play a game that seems to consist of nothing but hitting each other with sticks. Meanwhile, Draco, Ted and Zabini watch the goings-on on the frozen lake, as two seventh-years transform the students' shoes into ice skates. Most of them do a few slow-paced laps on the ice, some even start a race and others just try to move forward without falling.
The latter also includes Pansy Parkinson; despite being held tightly by Bulstrode and Greengrass, she keeps losing her balance.
"Tiny as a pixie and clumsy as a troll!" Draco laughs, nudging Ted with his elbow. "Why don't you show her how to do this right?"
Ted adjusts his bobble cap with reindeer antlers, ignoring the amused looks with unshakeable self-confidence. "Sod you."
"What are you talking about?" asks Zabini, who is hard to understand with the green-silver scarf covering half his face.
"My grandmother insisted that I skate, like my mother did as a child," explains Ted. "I used to practise three times a week until I was nine. Then she finally became sober and realised that I'm a boy."
"Sounds almost like a Christmas tale."
"Anyway, are you ready for the holidays?"
Draco rolls his eyes. "Bet my parents drag me to one of those stupid charity balls again."
"Want to swap with me?" asks Ted. "Then you and my depressed father can sit there and wonder that 'another year went by'."
"At least you know what to expect," says Zabini. "Wouldn't be surprised if my mother introduces me to her new husband."
"That's what my father needs, too."
Draco grins. "A new husband?"
"Haha."
"What about introducing him to Zabini's mum?"
"Shut up, Malfoy," Zabini murmurs, but Ted ignores the comment, pointing to the other end of the shore, where a group of older students has a snowball fight (after being hit on his turban, the mentally unstable Professor Quirrell runs off like the devil were chasing him).
"Am I wrong, or is that laughing person back there actually Marcus Flint?"
"He is. Looks like he has finally overcome the defeat by Gryffindor."
A few weeks ago, nobody would have thought this possible. The silence in the common room after the game was only broken by the loud bang, with which Flint slammed the door of his dormitory behind him. The shaking caused the portrait of a wizard to jump into the portrait of tea drinking, young ladies, as he feared that his frame might fall off the wall.
The players rushed to their dorms as well to avoid the icy looks of their fellow students. Only the Seeker, Terence Higgs, was nowhere to be seen (it was rumoured, Flint had told him off so badly that he fled to the bathroom, crying).
But everyone understood Flint's anger. The fact that Slytherin has won the Quidditch Cup five years in a row is neither due to luck, nor cheating, as the other houses like to claim. The truth is that the team trains every day, sometimes twice, and that Flint broods over game tactics after classes rather than homework and upcoming exams. You accept not passing the fifth grade when your sporting talent gives you the chance to leave your lousy alcoholic family behind forever.
And then, of all people, a Gryffindor first-year, who shouldn't even be allowed to play, comes along and brings victory to his house. The performance of the boy who lived to annoy everyone was a joke, though. Not only did he lose control of his super-duper-awesome Nimbus during the game, but also almost swallowed the Snitch that had flown into his mouth! There could be no talk of an active catch, but once again, the rules were spontaneously changed in favour of Prince Potter.
The morale was low, and no one - not even Goyle, whose sense of humour is absolutely undemanding - laughed at Draco's remark, that the Gryffindors should make a wide-mouthed tree frog their Seeker next time.
"Word is, Miles Bletchley told his brother that Flint's going to kick Higgs off the team when the season's over," says Ted.
"Good," says Draco. "Then I'll be Seeker and show that scarface how to catch a Snitch properly."
Zabini snorts. "Sure."
"You'll see," says Draco calmly, while Flint makes an obscene gesture behind the Weasley twins' back.
~.~.~
When the Hogwarts Express arrives at King's Cross the next evening, the platform nine and three-quarters is jam-packed. But even if his parents wouldn't keep their distance from the crowd, Draco would have noticed the white blond hair that stands out like his own.
His father stands motionless and bolt upright, as if posing for a painting. He's holding the silver snakehead of his noble black walking stick with one hand, the small waist of his wife with the other. She wrinkles her nose, as always when being surrounded by common people.
The Malfoys are all the same; tall, blond, handsome and absolutely elitist.
"Welcome back, Draco," his father greets him, patting his shoulder and taking the suitcase.
Another important Malfoy-characteristic: emotional outbursts happen rather sparingly.
"Thank you, Father." Draco nods and turns to his mother, whose eyes are suspiciously shiny. "Hello, Mother."
Smiling, she bends down to him and takes his face with both hands. "Hello, Draco," she whispers and kisses his forehead.
He hopes that none of his classmates is watching.
"Narcissa, you're embarrassing the boy," says his father.
Thank you!
She straightens up, giving her husband a sharp look. "I haven't seen him in months, Lucius. Don't tell me how to greet my son!"
Draco grins to himself. Only when his parents will stop arguing one day, he would have to worry.
In a carriage drawn by winged horses, they fly to Malfoy Manor in the southwestern Wiltshire, while Draco recounts his experiences over the past few months. He conceals his quarrels with Pansy Parkinson - a girl - and goes on and on about Harry Potter and his special treatments (after he got his Nimbus, Draco wrote his parents to find some other Christmas present for him).
His mother listens attentively; she's interested in any subject, as long as Draco is the one to talk about it. But when he mentions the Halloween-troll-disaster, her delighted smile disappears and she and her husband make plans to finally have Albus Dumbledore fired as Headmaster.
~.~.~
During the following days, Draco fully enjoys the conveniences he had to do without at Hogwarts. Most of all, flying on his broomstick, but also the fact that he has plenty of space, as he doesn't have to share his home with hundreds of people.
The impressive estate, which has six spires, is surrounded by several hectares of land and has been owned by the family since the eleventh century, is of course not easily accessible. At first, a path lined with high hedges leads to an iron gate. When Draco or his parents approach it, it turns into a cloud of mist that they can walk through. Visitors first have to say the words Sanctimonia Vincet Semper ("Purity will always conquer"), which can also be read on the Malfoy family crest, otherwise the gate remains locked and contorts into a malicious grimace.
A massive double door leads to the entrance hall of the mansion, which is laid with red marble. Numerous portraits show ancestors of the Malfoys and the Blacks dating back to the Tudor period. As a toddler, Draco once doodled on Elladora Black's portrait with crayons and painted her a moustache, which is why she still shakes her head disapprovingly when he passes her.
The ground floor also includes the piano room, a small library and the kitchen, which Draco and his parents hardly ever enter; a house-elf named Dobby is on duty around the clock and responsible for the family's meals.
In the salon, which is currently decorated with opulent Christmas wreaths, hollies and a hig, gold-adorned fir tree, the Malfoys welcome their guests and have afternoon tea. Furthermore, a New Year's ball is held in here every few years. Next to the adjacent dining room, steps lead into the basement, where the quiet ghost couple can be seen waltzing through the air.
The imposing double staircase in the entrance hall is flooded with sunlight breaking through a glass dome in the roof. At the top of the stairs on the first floor, there is an oil painting of Draco in what he thinks is an ugly velvet suit with a ruff collar. This floor offers guest rooms and an exhibition room for family heirlooms. Iron spiral stairs on both sides lead to the second and attic floor. Draco has the left wing to himself, his parents reside in the right wing.
When it became clear that he would remain an only child, they were faced with the task of furnishing the surplus rooms in the left wing. For some reason, they thought it useful to set up a reading room with a fireplace. There also had been an attic room for Draco's toys, until his father decided that he had 'outgrown the stuff', disposed of said stuff (except for the green plush dragon Monty, which Draco still keeps hidden in his closet) and turned the room into a drab office.
But this Christmas, a special surprise awaits Draco. He has been a fan of the Montrose Magpies for as long as he can remember. His father often took him to games, and for his tenth birthday he got a Quaffle signed by all team members and a group photo with them. And now the office is filled with the merchandise, posters, pennants and signed toy broomsticks that he collected over the years. But there are new things, too, like the team uniform in Draco's size, or the miniature version of a Quidditch stadium, in which tiny players re-enact the most legendary goals and Snitch catches in the team's history.
Of course, Draco also gets boring gifts, such as clothes, school supplies and the annual document issued by the Goblins in Gringotts, which shows his current and ever-growing fortune. He can probably count himself lucky that he never has to work, but that's really nothing new.
He knows he's leading a life of luxury, but hey - someone has to.
~.~.~
Just two days after Christmas, it's business as usual at the Malfoys'. Dobby serves the breakfast hopping and croaking like a frog, because Draco told him to, his father complains about incompetent bank clerks and his mother makes a fuss about the wardrobe choices for a party in the evening.
Although his parents don't have a job in the traditional sense, they're constantly on the move. Since they're on the boards of any important charity foundations, they have to go to meetings, business lunches, balls or openings all the time. Whatever appointment it is today, Draco doesn't hope for staying home alone, because he's never been allowed to. They're probably afraid he might take a closer look at the top secret items under the trap door in the salon. He's pretty sure they have something to do with dark magic, but his parents just keep telling that he has to stay away from them.
"Are you looking forward to the evening, Draco?" his mother asks.
"Where are we going?" he asks bored.
"I assumed you would know. The mother of a classmate invited us to her home."
"Whose mother?"
"Pansy Parkinson's."
CLINK!
The knife slips out of his hand.
"You seem surprised," his father notes.
Draco makes a face as if being forced to eat Brussels sprouts. "I loathe Pansy Parkinson!"
"Don't be silly," his mother says, "I'm sure there is absolutely no reason for that. In any case, Mrs Parkinson seems very friendly to me."
"But I don't want to go there!" Draco cries defiantly.
"Enough!" his mother snaps. "You will accompany us and be on your best behaviour, and this is not a request! Besides, I certainly don't need to remind you that the Parkinsons belong to the Twenty-Eight."
Stunned, Draco stares at his muffin with orange marmalade. What made the midget's mother decide to invite his family to a party? What's the point?
His father breaks the silence. "I wonder what young Miss Parkinson may have done that you react like this."
"She's just … super annoying."
"Could you express yourself more precisely?"
Draco would rather have bitten off his tongue than admitting it, but he will spare no effort in dissuading his parents from the visit. "She once pushed me and I fell down!"
"What was that? You let a girl push you around?"
"Lucius!" His mother sighs. "Draco, you both should act more mature at your age, don't you think?"
Not the answers he was hoping for. "But -"
"Whatever may have happened, tonight is the perfect opportunity to clear up your problems. And now eat your breakfast."
Says the woman who makes her food disappear in napkins.
"Listen to your mother, Draco."
He grumpily takes a bite from his muffin. For nothing in the world is he going to make peace with that cow!